


Road to Nowhere

by aphaedite



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Coffee Shops, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Ebeneza "Ebb" Petty Lives, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, The Mage (Simon Snow) is an Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphaedite/pseuds/aphaedite
Summary: A troubled Simon and a reckless Baz fall in love in 1986.
Relationships: Dev & Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Ebeneza "Ebb" Petty & Simon Snow, Penelope Bunce & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in the eighties. there will be lots and lots of music references, and lots of... vintage activities? and drugs. my bad. this is marked teen and up right now, but the rating might change as the story progresses. i'll also add tags as i add chapters.

"Cry, Simon."

That's what Ebb had said a year ago when everything happened. We were sitting in her car outside the court house and I was wearing my best slacks and a button down and my face inside out. My skin was tingling and my head was in the clouds and I had wondered if my head was detached would I say, "me and my head" or "me and my body." I had to wonder about this because I was concerned that I had left myself back in the court house.

I had said, "Why would I cry? This is the best thing that has ever happened to me." And she had looked at me all sad, all sorry, and said, "Because you're grieving."

"But he isn't dead, Ebb."

Then, she had shaken her head, taken my hand in hers and given me a solemn nod before driving me to the place we had picked out. When we got there, Ebb took some of the papers we got from the court house inside and came back out wagging a set of keys at me. When she got back in the car, she put the keys in my palm, folded my fingers over them, looked at me with watery eyes and told me, "Happy Birthday, Simon."

I told Ebb all I wanted was something cheap and within biking distance of school so I didn't have to ride the bus. She said anything was within biking distance of school if you were determined enough and I laughed. Then she said I had low standards. I said that I didn't want it to take her too long to find something.

When I first moved in, I only had my clothes and my bike. The clothes were court-ordered and the bike was Ebb-ordered, but Davy wasn't required to give me anything else, and he wasn't really interested in making anything easy. He wouldn't let me have my bed or my mattress, which made my first few weeks uncomfortable. (I slept on the floor.) (That first night in my own apartment, even on the floor, was the best sleep I'd ever gotten.)

I'm not mad at him for being the way he is. I never was. We both could've been better. Nothing is ever one sided. Nobody ever does anything without a reason.

Anyway, it's a relief to not have any reminders of him laying around.

Penny tried to get me excited about interior decorating to distract me from the fact that I had just legally emancipated myself from Davy. ("Simon! You're getting your own place two years early!") She and I spent the rest of summer break last year taking her mom's pickup around to yard sales and second-hand stores to find furniture. I got a broken metal bed frame and a mattress from a Goodwill for thirty dollars, and what Penny called a "statement of an arm chair" from her neighbor Esme. It took a lot of convincing from Penny to get that arm chair. Esme insisted it was a Bergère because the wood frame was exposed. She said, "If you want a _Bergère_ you'll have to pay a _Bergère price_." I didn't think it was really worth whatever a Bergère price entailed; it's wooden legs were splintering and I think she let her cats use it to sharpen their claws. Penny had led her over to the driveway, away from me, and talked to Esme with a look that always makes me nervous when it's directed at me. When they came back, the old woman pinched my cheeks and told me I could have it for a nickel. It's probably my favorite thing I have ever owned — the best nickel I ever spent. It's upholstered with dark green velveteen and it's got a little indentation in the arm that perfectly holds a cup of chamomile tea. It makes me feel like a melancholic French poet. I named it after Esme and her generosity.

I haven't told Ebb or Penny this, but one night I got really weird, really lonely, like outside of the court house, and I broke into Davy's house through my old window and stole my turntable and my records back. It wasn't particularly difficult, I only have four records: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, Talking Heads '77, Remain in Light, and Little Creatures. (Little Creatures came out two weeks before my birthday last year and Penny managed to get it for me. When I listen to it, I lay completely still on the floor so I don't accidentally bump the turntable and scratch the record.) I'm sure Penny, since my pillage, has noticed the record player, but she hasn't mentioned it. I don't think she could without feeling like she has to scold me. For being reckless, risky, for putting myself in danger. She feels like she has to take care of me. She's very motherly that way.

Last week, I made the mistake of telling her that I hadn't ever had a birthday party.

"I really don't think I'm supposed to make my own birthday cake, Pen," I laugh, lobbing a handful of flour at her shirt. She scowls.

"If you were actually helping me at all, that would be something to think about," Penny says, ruffling my hair with flour covered fingers.

"I am helping!" I shriek, swatting at her hand. "Penny, stop!"

"You're not helping. You're just making the kitchen a mess."

"Christ, Penny! It's _my_ kitchen." My cheeks hurt from smiling.

"Whatever, Si. Get the flour out of your hair."

"You're the one that put flour in my hair."

"Excuses aren't a good look on you."

I groan. "God. I'm gonna go put a record on."

"I swear to fuck, if you make me listen to Rock 'n' Roll Suicide for the twelfth time today, I'm taking your present back."

"It's my birthday! I should get to listen to whatever music I want," I pout. "You said you were going to make my first birthday party special, Penny."

She sighs, giving me a hard look before throwing her arms up in surrender. "Play your fucking Bowie."

I grin.

"Will do," I call from the living room, which isn't actually separate from the kitchen at all aside from the living room being covered in ratty carpet and the kitchen being tiled. When I first moved in, Penny tried to convince me that we could do some feng shui thing to make the rooms feel more separate and I said it seemed like I might need more than one arm chair to make that work. Then she told me open-concepts were more "in" now anyway.

I put the record on. It crackles a little bit through Five Years. Penny likes to do interpretive dance to this song, and I can't imagine that's helped preserve the vinyl, but I like her dances too much to mention that to her.

I lay down on my shitty carpet and stare at my shitty ceiling and I smile. I can feel daisies curling around my brain and sprouting out of my eyes. I look over at Pen and she's got daisies for eyes too. I turn the music up as far as it will go. The room is full of laughter and flowers and yellow light and Penny is swinging her hips and pouring birthday cake batter into a pan and I can't stop smiling. I think if I looked out my window, I would see the clouds. And if I looked down, I would see the tops of all of the buildings in Connecticut, because it feels like Penny and I are the only two people in the world this evening.

I hear the oven shut and Pen slides onto the carpet next to me.

"We should try and find you a rug," she says.

"This is the best birthday I've ever had," I say. 

She looks at me and smiles the sad sort of smile Ebb usually gives me, painfully sincere. "You haven't even opened your present yet."

My eyes widen. "Let's do that, then."

Penny laughs. "Absolutely."

I sit up and Penny gets the present from my bedroom; she stashed it there because she didn't want me trying to peek while she made the cake. She brings out a big box wrapped in birthday wrapping paper, all perfectly creased edges and carefully placed tape with a little bordered tag that reads "For the birthday boy who is a loser and also my best friend." It's very Penny. I love it already.

She sets it down in front of where I'm sitting on the floor. "Open it," she says, smiling.

I gingerly peel back the flaps on the sides of the box, careful not to rip the paper. Penny gives me an impatient look. "Si, just rip it."

I shrug. "I don't want to."

I finally dismantle Pen's work. It's a lilac bedding set, tightly packed inside a zipped plastic bag. It has pillow cases and sheets and a thick quilt with embroidered cross hatching done with white thread. There's a picture on the front of what it looks like on a real bed. My bed couldn't possibly look so pretty. Everything matches. The underside of the blanket is white. There's a cutout in the plastic where you can test-feel the sheets and they're almost too precious to touch and they're so _soft_. I tear up.

" _Penny_."

She smiles her Ebb-smile. "Alright?"

"I love it," I whisper, smoothing a piece of the fabric between my fingers. "Thank you so much."

She scoots next to me and pulls me into her side, leaning her head on my shoulder. "Happy birthday, Si."

I'm all choked up. "This is too much, Pen."

She shakes her head. "God. No, it isn't."

"I feel bad taking this."

"You wouldn't even let me buy party decorations," she groans. "You have to take this."

I take a deep breath and nod.

Penny and I take her present into my bedroom and make my bed up. Once all of the sheets are on and tucked appropriately, we take the edges of the quilt and pull them down over the air really fast to make a parachute, giving each other childish smiles. Then we prop the pillows up against the wall. The set comes with four pillow cases, and I only have two pillows. I try not to look too excited about having extra so Penny doesn't think I'm pathetic. It looks almost as lovely on my bed as it did on the preview-bed. I could cry again.

"It looks all proper," I say.

She gestures toward the bed excitedly. "Try it out."

I crawl onto my bed, wincing at the awful creak that comes from my mattress. It's so soft, so so so soft. And new! _Brand new_. And Penny got it for _me_. It might be my new favorite thing, maybe even better than Esme. Definitely better than Esme. God, I love Penny.

I lay my head up on one of the pillows and sigh happily. "You too, Pen," I say, waving her over. "I think I need a second opinion."

She wastes no time crawling up beside me and gives a long thinking hum. "I don't know. I think I might have to take it back home with me and run some tests."

"Over my dead body."

"I'm glad you like it."

"I love it."

The music stops from the other room but I can't get up to flip the record. I don't think I can ever get up again. I will live in my perfect bed for the rest of time.

"School starts soon," Penny whispers.

"It's only been three weeks since school _ended_ , Pen."

I hate school starting. I can't keep up with bills. I mean, I can, and I do, but it's fucking hard. I can't work full time, and money gets impossibly tight. Working takes up all my time before and after school, and it's still just enough to keep me fed. Penny always tells me she doesn't mind to help, and I always say _no thank you_. She usually does anyway, though. Sometimes in the winter, or when I'm really struggling, I find food in the cabinets that I didn't buy. Things that don't go bad — like cans of soup or pasta. (Once, I found a pancake mix and I couldn't stop crying into the batter.) Penny always denies having bought me anything, and keeps doing it no matter how many times I tell her to stop, because I think she knows I can't afford for her to. 

She sighs. "I can't believe it's our last year."

"Me neither," I breathe.

She smiles at me. "It'll be good. We'll make it good. Yeah?"

"Yeah," I say.

"When's Ebb's next visit?" she asks after a beat.

"Wednesday, I think. That's the twenty-fifth, right?"

She shrugs. "Need anything?"

"It's summer. Plenty of food in the kitchen, Pen." My eyebrows furrow. "Actually, there's not right now, but there will be when Ebb swings by."

"What would she do if there wasn't?"

"That happened once. I didn't have eggs or milk. She gave me five bucks, made me go to the store, and waited for me to get back before filling out the paperwork."

"She really cares about you."

"Ebb's the best," I say. "How's your mom?"

"She's alright. Better now that graduation stuff's over. That always stresses her out, lots of moving parts."

"I bet."

"I'm going to the school with her tomorrow to finish things up. Clean out lockers and shit."

"That's nice of you."

She shrugs. "How's work been?"

"Fine. Lots of kids from school hang out there during the day. This one girl — I think you know her. French, sophomore year? — Anyway, keeps coming in and asking me to make designs with the foam, and every time I have to tell her I don't know how. She's a nightmare."

"Maybe you should just learn."

"Maybe Pritchard's Coffee just isn't for her."

"You should tell her that."

"Maybe I will."

"We need to get you a _phone_ , Simon."

"They're _expensive_ , Penelope."

"I miss talking to you. I don't see you every day now and _I miss you_."

"You have to pay for them _every month_. I think that's ridiculous."

"You're right. It is," she sighs. "Maybe I should move in. We could consolidate our record collections."

"I have a snazzy new bed set for us to share."

She laughs. "I'm going to smuggle you to New Jersey with me."

"Do it."

"In a little suitcase. You'll fit."

"I'm 6'3", Pen."

"You're 5'10" on a good day."

"Shh. I'm 6'3" and muscular."

"If you say so."

"Are you really going to Princeton?"

"I don't know."

"You'd be so far away."

"I know."

"You could go to Brown."

"Am I smart enough for Brown?"

Penny is really, really smart. She'll cure cancer. And solve world hunger. And if she wasn't the least patriotic person I know, I think she'd be the first female president.

"I think so."

"I'll go to Brown, then."

"Providence is only a three hour drive."

"One and a half if you have no sense of self-preservation."

"I would bike up there every weekend."

"I know you would."

My eyes widen and I shoot up off the bed. "Shit, Pen!"

She flinches. "What?"

"The cake!"

"It hasn't been that long, has it?" she gasps, leaping off the bed.

We scramble into the kitchen. Penny throws open the drawer with the pot holders and I throw open the oven. She tosses me an oven mitt and I grab the cake off of the rack. The cake is totally fine — perfectly done, even.

Penny sighs, relieved. "Jesus, Simon. It's fine. Not even a little burned."

I laugh. "It felt like forever since you put it in there."

She rolls her eyes. "You have to get a timer."

"I had one. _Somebody_ broke it." I shoot Penny a pointed glare.

"That was _you_."

"I said somebody," I say, shrugging. Penny huffs, and then laughs. "Can we ice it yet?"

"We have to let it cool first. Open your window."

I head to the window above the sink and push it open. Big shards of paint fall off of it every time I open or close it. I keep them in a cup next to the sink, and when I move out I'm just going to glue them back on. They'll never know.

Pen sets the cake on the window sill to cool. Then she turns and looks at me with a look that means she's going to say something motherly.

"You know I'm proud of you, right?"

"God, Pen. You sound like a mom."

"I just want you to know," she says defensively, elbowing me playfully.

I nudge her shoulder and smile my best Ebb-smile. "I do know. Thank you."

She pulls me into a hug, planting her face on my chest. "I can't believe you're seventeen," she mumbles into my shirt.

I bring my arms up around her waist. "I turned sixteen on my last birthday, and I'll turn eighteen on my next. That is kind of how these things go."

"Do you hear something, Si? I think I hear a really obnoxious noise ruining the moment."

"Is it me?" I ask, bringing my forehead to her shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Right."

She pulls away and hops up on the counter. I wince. It doesn't ever seem to occur to Penny that I rent this place. She's always trying to get me to hang things up on the walls. (She has an obsession with feng shui.) "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

I shrug. "Working. I open and close tomorrow."

"Aren't there, like, child labor laws or something?"

"I think I heard something about those."

"Are you doing anything fun tomorrow?" she asks, exasperated.

"I was thinking about going to the store and splurging on some milk."

"Whole?"

"You know it."

"That's high-class livin', Simon Snow."

I laugh. "Did you want to do anything for dinner?"

"What do you have to work with?"

I open the fridge. I have a single cup of mango Yoplait, some blueberries on their last leg, and two eggs. "Where did all the eggs go?"

"I used three for the cake."

"Jesus." I shut the fridge. "We could have dry cereal." I open the cabinet above Penny's head. "I think I have Honeycombs."

"Soup?"

"It's eighty-five degrees."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Soup's a winter food."

She waves dismissively. "Winter is a social construct."

"What does that even mean? Winter's a season."

"How have I not rubbed off on you at all? "

"I hate the government, thanks to you. And the 'inherent corruptness of organized religion'."

"At least there's that," she sighs. She's very good at pretending to be exasperated, it's her default. Her default after anarchic, I guess.

"We could eat it cold. That would make it a summer food."

"You are disgusting."

"Why can't we just eat cake for dinner?"

She shrugs. "I guess we can."

I pull the cake down off of the window sill. "I think it's cool now."

Penny furrows her eyebrows. "It's been like eight minutes."

"How long are we supposed to wait?"

"I don't know. An hour."

"An hour?" I shake my head. "I think it's fine."

I flip the cake over onto a plate. A piece of it sticks to the bottom of the pan, and Penny peels it off and pops it in her mouth. "It's good."

We use a tin of chocolate frosting Penny brought to ice the cake and do an impressively bad job of it. The icing is melting, sliding down the sides, as we smear it on. (We probably should've waited the extra fifty-two minutes.) I tell Penny it looks like shit, but she says it's perfect and carves "Happy B-Day Si ♡" into it with a toothpick.

"Go sit down. And shut your eyes. No peeking, Simon!"

I perch myself on Esme and hear her rustling around, and then the repeated flicking of a lighter. She bought me _candles_.

"It doesn't matter if my eyes are shut if I can hear what you're doing!" I yell, smiling.

I can practically hear her eyes roll. "Shut up!"

And when I open my eyes, Penny is standing in front of me with our substandard cake in her arms, lit up with seventeen rainbow candles. (I assume it's seventeen, anyway. It's a lot of them, but I don't actually count.)

"Make a wish!" Penny says. Her smile is filled with so much love. She reaches out to ruffle my hair.

I wish for a good ACT score and a full-ride to whatever college Penny's going to. And then I wish for fifteen other little things and Penny tells me "it's not really a one-wish-per-candle kind of deal." I tell her that sounds like a social construct. She smiles at me like she's proud of me and tells me that it absolutely is.  
  


__________________________________________  
  
  
  


The couple next door to me has an amazing sex life. They literally have sex constantly, on the walls almost exclusively, it seems. They moved in at the same time I did, and they had just gotten married. I had thought, had hoped, that they would graduate from the honeymoon phase at some point. But here we are, a year later, and, Amy and Sasha — those are their names — still have annoyingly high, if not impressively high, libido.

I didn't realize what they were doing at first, and I was really worried the building was going to collapse. Then after I heard them screaming, I thought Sasha was hitting Amy, and it made me think about a lot of things that I didn't really want to think about.

A tiny, awful, nagging part of me thought that maybe she deserved it. (Because nothing is ever one sided. Nobody ever does anything without a reason.)

For the first few times it happened, I tried to mind my own business. I would go close myself in the bathroom (which also made me think about things I didn't want to think about), and I would turn the shower on to block out the noise until I couldn't feel the thumping any more. But it kept happening, nearly every day, sometimes in the morning and sometimes at night, and finally, I told our landlord, Dr. Beckett, that I was worried for her. He said he would talk to them.

A couple days later Dr. Beckett knocked on my door and told me that he asked them to keep it down. And I asked him if Amy was alright, and he said, "You know how young couples are." And then I felt really, really stupid.

Anyway, it's four in the morning, Penny only left six hours ago, and my lovely neighbors are going at it.

I've been laying on my back with a pillow over my bitter head for the past hour. Finally, enough anger bubbles up in my stomach that I bang my fist against the wall as hard as I can. The noise stops and I sigh happily, rolling over and nuzzling into my fancy new pillow case. Then, I hear muffled voices, and the thumping starts up again, this time, against my other wall. Like that makes a difference.

I groan loudly, self-indulgently, because I'm upset, and I throw my pillow to the other side of the room. I angrily roll out of bed, and I angrily get dressed, and angrily brush my teeth. I'm going to go to work early, I have to open in two hours anyway. I head out of the apartment, slamming my door on the way out. Goddamn Sasha and his short fucking refractory period.

The moon is shining high in the sky and the air is still so warm, silky, like molten silver. It rolls over the freckles on my arms and it pulls the anger out from my middle; I let it fill me up. And I run the whole way to the coffee house, my shoes slapping against the cement, jarring my bones. I feel it in my knees and in my chest and it's so good. Running is always so good, especially in the dark when you're feeling just a little too small for your skin.

I fumble with the keys and push the big glass doors open. I love the cafe like this, bathed in moonlight and still like a painting. It always reminds me of 1984, the book, for some reason. I just feel like all of the colors in that book would be a real dull silvery color, not like monotone, but like if sepia were grey-blue instead of red-brown.

I flick on the fluorescents and wipe down the tables, and I pull the biscuit dough out of the fridge to thaw. I give the windows a quick clean and make myself a cup of coffee. I drink it black like Ebb does.

I love working here. We don't really have uniforms, but we do wear little aprons with watercolor-y strawberries. And red hats. And our boss is very funny and extremely awesome. She's very vulgar, and she takes pride in the fact that most men her age hate her because "they're backwards, dead-shit virgins who'd do away with the 19th amendment if they could."

She's had this place for twenty years — our town wouldn't be anything without Pritchard's Coffee, it's a staple. But I don't think she's redecorated since she first opened, since the 60's.The booths are a soft teal color, with white piping tracing their edges, and the walls are horizontally split-painted, the top half cream and the bottom a dusty cherry red. Ms. Pritchard has fake, leafy, palm plants in metal pots next to every door, and pictures of sandy beaches all over the walls. I think, when her mom dies, she'll move to Florida. There are beaches here, but I'm sure Connecticut beaches don't compare to Florida beaches.

I sit and I sit and wait and wait to finally open. It's so completely silent, aside from my own breathing and the clock tickingtickingticking from above the ladies' restroom door. I'm staring at a streetlight in front of the bank, fixed on it like a moth. Everything around it gets a little darker, I can feel static at the back of my head. That's been happening since I was little. Ebb talked to me a little about why. But I realize what's happening, so I go and touch all of the plants, and then all of the chairs, and that helps. I turn the radio on to the Top 40's station and Van Halen starts flowing through the speakers.

I hear the bell above the door ring, and Ms. Pritchard bustles in from the street. She's wearing bell-bottom jeans, and her thick arms are pulled through a striped pollo. Her cheeks are always rosy and her frizzy, explosive mop of grey hair is tamed, as much as it can be, with a yellow bandana.

She gives me a nod, rushing back to her office. It's 5:53. We don't technically open for another seven minutes, but I figure it's close enough, and I flip our sign from "closed" in thick, black letters to "open for business" in curly cursive.

"Snow, good morning," Ms. Pritchard says, walking back into the cafe area and fiddling with the cash register.

"Good morning, Ms. Pritchard," I say, smiling.

She rolls her eyes. "God, kid. How many times do I have to say it? Call me Barbara."

"It feels unprofessional," I say.

"It's my cafe. I decide what is, and isn't, professional." She pouts a little. It's very funny to see a fifty year old woman pout. "Ms. Pritchard makes me feel so, so old, Snow."

"Old? Didn't you just turn twenty-nine?" I say, feigning confusion. We do this every time she says anything about being old.

She laughs, punching some keys on the register. "Yup, been twenty-nine for twenty-four years now." Her eyes go wide. "Fuck. Wasn't it your birthday yesterday?"

I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my head up on my hand. "Maybe."

"Oh my god. And I made you open. I'm terrible. I'm sorry. Happy late birthday."

"That's okay, I don't mind. I didn't get any sleep anyway."

"The not-so-newlyweds still fucking like rabbits?"

I scoff. "You have no idea."

"How old are you now, then?"

"Seventeen."

She looks at me hard, like she's thinking. "Fine. I'll do it."

"Do what?"

"Give you a half-day."

"I didn't ask for a half-day."

"Yeah, you did." I start to protest and she says, "With your eyes, kid. I can tell these things."

I chuckle. "Thank you, but I kinda need the money."

"I'll give you your wages. You work too much anyway, you're gonna get me in trouble."

I open my mouth, close it, open it again. "You don't need to do that."

"It's a birthday present."

"Really you-"

"Snow. If you don't stop arguing I will fire you. You're off at noon."

"Um. Alright. Thank you."

She smiles.   
  
  


__________________________________________  
  
  
  


I spend my shift mechanically making coffees and staring through patrons. The static is in the back of my head again, and in my hands. A thick layer of it humming all across my back and my thighs. A very nice lady repeats her order to me three times before I get it. I spill scalding coffee over my hands before Barbara makes me take ten.

Noon rolls around and I use the cafe phone to call the school phone so I can get ahold of Penny. The receptionist answers almost immediately.

"Watford County Highschool."

"Hello, ma'am. Is Principal Bunce's daughter there?"

"Who should I tell her is calling?"

"Simon Snow."

She sighs. "Just a minute," she mutters dejectedly. I mumble a soft _sorry to bother you_ and she grunts.

I hear her chair creak, and her footsteps against the linoleum.

A minute later, Penny's voice comes through the speaker. "Who's this?"

"It's Simon. Didn't she tell you?"

"Simon? Simon who?"

"Simon Sn- You're fucking with me."

"Aren't I always?"

"You're a menace."

She smiles into the phone. "What's up? I thought you were working."

"Um. Barbara gave me a half-day."

"Barbara?" She hums. "Are you screwing your boss?"

"God, Pen. _No_. Why do you have to be like that?" I groan, flustered. "She says Ms. Pritchard made her feel old."

"Wait, you let her give you a half-day?"

"She _made_ me take a half-day," I grumble.

Penny laughs. "Good woman. Why are you calling?"

"When are you guys gonna be done? I thought we could do something. Hang out or whatever."

"Just a second." She pulls the phone away from her ear, I hear her call out to her mom. _Mom. When are we going to be done here? It's Simon. You don't? Are you sure? If you're totally sure? I really don't mind. Alright._ "She says I can split."

"Do you have your car?"

"I do."

I take a deep breath.

"Can we drive?" I ask, trying not to sound pleading. It probably doesn't make a difference. Penny knows me too well.

"Oh. The beach route?"

"If you don't mind."

"I don't," she says. "I'll come get you."

"Okay."

"Be there in fifteen. You're still at the coffee house, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Fifteen minutes. See you."

"See you."

I sit on a bench outside. A red car flies past, and then a black one, and then another red one. And maybe a dozen more go by. And a few people walking dogs. There's a family of five talking about baseball, a group of kids heading into the coffee shop. It's loud. All of the colors are blurring, digging into the backs of my eyes until everything starts to look like one of those thermal pictures. I tilt my head down to the ground and squeeze my eyes shut. I think my nails are digging into my palms. I think about the "me and my head" or "me and my body" conundrum.

" _Simon_."

I snap my head up. It's Penny, backlit by the sun, light filtering around her like she's a seraph or something.

"Yeah."

She looks at me, her eyebrows furrowed, before holding out her hand, completely made of stone. "Let's go."

I take Penny's hand and let her walk me to her car. She parked it along the street. It's an '83 Volkswagen hatchback — very compact, and very blue. It's got an open compartment trunk and a really big back window; sometimes I climb over the back seat and look out the rear while Penny drives. It kind of feels like being filled up from head to toe with stardust.

Penny and I slink into the car. I'm in the passenger seat, she's in the driver's seat. I can't drive. Penny offered to teach me but Mitali said, "Simon. I love you, really, but you've hit our mailbox with your bike four times, and I don't think the mailbox would survive you hitting it with a car." 

As soon as Pen starts the car, she rolls the windows down. She doesn't believe in driving with the windows up.

"Alright, Si?"

I hum and look out the window.

"Hey. Talk to me," she says, grabbing my shoulder. I flinch. She frowns. I start to say sorry and she shakes her head.

"I'm fine, Pen."

"I said your name like three times at the bench."

"It was really loud."

"And you name-dropped the beach route."

"That was you, actually."

She frowns.

"I'm just tired. Slept like shit," I say.

She twists the wheel and pulls onto the street. I nudge her elbow and offer her a smile, she returns it. I turn on the radio.

She pulls up to a stop sign and makes a left, and a right, and another right. I'm distracted in a different way and my nails fall out of my palms. Downtown fades into houses and the houses fade into fields. And after ten minutes the fields fade into long, stretching beaches. Going for miles and miles and miles in front of the car. I think the water must go forever, reaching heaven and hell and the end of everything. Wind is beating through the windows, roaring, but it's not too much anymore. The air is salty and completely liberating. I smile at Penny.

"Sorry I took you away from your mom," I say.

"She said she didn't need my help anyway."

"Thank you for driving."

She takes a breath and I see her knuckles tighten around the wheel. "The static? Is that what happened?"

That was the only way I ever knew how to describe it to Penny, or to myself. Ebb described it to me by saying things like trauma and disassociation. I'm sure Penny understands it like Ebb does, but she uses my words when she talks to me about it. 

"Yeah."

"You slept like shit, you said?"

"Yeah."

"God. That makes it worse." She shakes her head, and points at me with a playfully homicidal look on her face. "I'm going to kill your neighbors."

" _Please_."

She smiles and her face loosens. She doesn't look so worried anymore.

I met Penny in the third grade. It was the first day of school. Our classroom was set up with little tables, two chairs to each one. I was going around the room and looking at all the posters our teacher had up when a little hand tapped on my equally little shoulder. It was a tiny Penny. She was wearing a tiny, black leather jacket and a tiny purple skirt with tights and tiny combat boots. And she was, without a doubt, the coolest person I had ever seen in my entire life. Eight-year-old me was completely blown away. I said hello and that my name was Simon Snow. And she said, "Hello. I'm Penelope Bunce, but you can call me Penny." And I told her that I liked her name and she told me that she liked mine. And I told her that I loved her jacket. She said thank you and that she and her parents didn't believe in war and that people who didn't believe in war wore leather jackets. I said that I thought war was bad too and she smiled at me.

And she said, "Simon Snow?"

And I said, "Yeah?"

And she said, "Would you like to be my best friend?"

And I said, "Forever?"

And she said, "Yeah."

And I said, "I think that would be nice."

I really look at Penny. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand out the window with her fingers spread, like a dream catcher, she looks _invincible_. Her hair is whipping in the wind and she's got her head laid back against the head rest, relaxed and confident, her eyes trained on the road. She always looks invincible. Because she is. Penny is made of moon rocks, I think. Or hardened amber. Or diamonds. Or something that doesn't even have a name yet. Something very powerful, a force to be reckoned with.

"What are you looking at?" she asks.

Sometimes I feel like I'm made of millions of little rivers, running through my arms and my legs instead of veins. Being pushed and pulled with the tides. Flooding too easily and drying out even easier.

"You're invincible, Pen. You know that?"

She grins, almost manic, her lips stretching over her teeth, her eyes crinkling. She looks wild.

"I _know_ , Simon. We all are."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you liked it!
> 
> i'm not quite sure about an updating schedule yet, but i'm thinking a couple chapters a month. but like i said, still not sure. you, my dear readers, will be the first to know when i figure it out. <3


	2. Chapter 2

I hear a knock from the door, and I spring up off of Esme, my tea left tucked into the hole in her arm and Remain in Light left spinning on the turntable. I hear humming, and I smile, knowing instantly who it is. Waiting behind the door is Ebb, wearing a summery dress with the usual clipboard tucked under one arm, and a birthday bag in the other.

"Hello, Simon," she says, smiling. "Happy late birthday."

"Thanks, Ebb." I steal a look at the bag in her hand. "What's that?"

She raises the bag to eye level. "What? This?"

I nod. 

"It's an accessory, y'know, abstract fashion."

"Oh," I say. "Right."

She laughs, a fond smile on her face. "Bless your heart. Your name is _on the tag_."

I look a little closer — my name _is_ on the tag. I smile. "You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to," she says. "Now let me in."

I open the door the rest of the way and Ebb strolls in. I cleaned up really well last night, and bought a couple things at the grocery store for Ebb's visit. She is always saying I'm not just supposed to have food in the house for when she comes to check, that that is the exact opposite of the point, but I am extremely fine with living off of Honeycombs.

Ebb sets my gift on the counter and pulls a pen from the slot at the top of her clipboard. "Let's do this quickly. I want to give you your gift and hang out for a bit before I have to head out."

I open the fridge, Ebb follows me with her Very Official State-Issued Papers, and it begins. 

"Eggs?"

"A new dozen." 

"Milk?"

"A gallon, minus a bowl of cereal's worth." 

"Meat or 'protein alternative'?"

"I bought some turkey. For sandwiches." 

I close the fridge and we walk to the cabinets. "Bread?" she asks.

"Yes. Also for sandwiches." 

"Crackers, peanut butter, and some kind of fruit or vegetable?"

I don't really understand that required item — peanut butter. Why is peanut butter necessary? Are emancipated kids with peanut allergies required to have peanut butter? 

"Yes, yes, and technically yes. I have some blueberries. They are kind of. Not. In good shape. But I think that still counts." 

She gives me a look but moves on. 

"At least five non-perishable food items?"

"I have lots of canned soup."

"Awesome," she mumbles, making notes on her clipboard. "And you've got all the personal hygiene items, yeah? Toilet paper, toothpaste, floss, shampoo, bar soap or shower gel?"

"I do."

"Do you still work at Pritchard's Coffee under Barbara Pritchard?"

"Yes. It's only been a month since you last asked that."

"Formalities, Simon," she says, sighing. "I called your landlord, everything's paid. School's out, don't have to check grades. Any doctor's visits lately?" I shake my head. "Your last check up was in January?"

"Yeah."

She makes a mark. "Dentist. You'll need to go again in another few months. I'll remind you when it's closer." 

And with a final mark on her clipboard and scribbled signatures from the both of us, she says, "Okay, Simon. You're doing well. I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks, Ebb."

She sets all of her caseworker supplies down and picks up the birthday bag, her eyes shimmering. She goes into the living room and plops down onto the carpet, and motions for me to do the same.

"Okay, Simon," she says, glaring at me a bit. (She's oddly firm considering she's giving me a gift.) "Look. I know you. And you are terrible at taking things from people. And I know you're going to argue with me about this, but I am telling you now, I am not taking no for an answer. Alright?"

I swallow, now very confused and a little suspicious. "Um. Alright."

Her face turns into something childlike and excited as she pushes the bag into my lap. "Great. Open it."

I take the red tissue paper and set it to the side, reaching into the bag and pulling out a box. A box with a rotary phone on the front. She must have just used leftover packaging to hold my actual present. I pull at the tabs on the sides of the box. There is a styrofoam mold curling around a real, actual phone. A real cream-colored rotary phone. The same color the computers are at NASA. 

I feel my eyebrows draw together and my jaw set. "Ebb."

"Simon."

"What. What is this?"

She gives me a goofy sympathetic smile, one that is meant to be a little patronizing, I think. "A phone. It says on the box, dear."

"Right. But." I can't make my mouth work, or my brain, actually. 

"But? But what?"

"I can't take-"

She cuts me off quickly. "You can and you _will_. You said 'alright'."

I sigh. "Ebb. It's a _phone_."

"We _just_ covered this." (She is really enjoying this.)

"This. This is really, really, way too much," I say, shaking my head. "You do so much for me, Ebb, I can't. Can't take this."

"Right, Simon. I do so much for you, and what I want in return is for you to take this phone." She sighs and takes one of my hands in hers." Because I worry about you, being all alone here without any way to contact anyone. I do not care for that. At all. So, to thank me for everything I do for you, you will take this phone and you will use it."

I look like a fish out of water with the way my mouth is opening and closing. A grin is breaking out across Ebb's cheeks. "Um," I say, because I'm very articulate.

"Perfect!" Ebb squeals, clapping her hands together. 

I look at my lap. "But. But. I mean. You pay every month, right?" I see Ebb nod out of the corner of my eye. "I can't do that."

"I had planned on splitting it with you," she says softly, like she knows it's an earth-shatteringly parental thing to say. I can feel tears prick the corners of my eyes. I look up and Ebb's eyes have tears, too. (She's the only person I know that understands everything meaning too much.)

"What do you mean?" I ask, my voice shaky.

"We can find you a cheap plan, something without all the bells and whistles, and we can half it. Or, if you want, you can give me as much as you can put into it and I can spot you for the rest."

She'll _spot_ me. A tear drips on to my hand. "You'd do that?" 

She nods. "I want you to be able to get a hold of someone if you need something. That's very important to me. I'm sorry it took me this long to-"

"God, Ebb. Don't apologize." I lean over the phone pressing into the carpet and wrap my arms around her middle, resting my chin on her shoulder. She immediately returns the hug. "Thank you."

She pats my back and gets some tears on my shirt before pulling away, smiling sheepishly. "I actually already made the first payment for you."

Ebb helps me get the phone plugged in and everything. It turns out my apartment has two phone jacks, one in the kitchen above the counter and one in the bedroom next to my bed. I opted for putting it in the bedroom. I'll be like the kids in movies who fall asleep talking to their friends, laying on their stomachs with their feet kicking behind them. I cry two more times while she's showing me how to call people on it and Ebb is a sympathetic crier. Needless to say, a ridiculous amount of tears are shed.

She says I can't make calls out of the city limits without being charged extra, but I don't have anyone outside the city limits to call anyway.

Ebb gives me a final, rib-crushing hug before telling me she has to go. I tell her thank you a few dozen more times as I close the door behind her.

I'm sitting next to the phone now, both of us resting up against the wall. The dialer is a red, plastic ring in the middle of the NASA-computer-colored body with ten holes cut into it, and the handset is connected to everything by a red, shiny, spiraling cord. I pick up the handset, pulling against the tension of the brand new cord, and hold it to my ear. It feels so foreign. I have my own phone. I can call people. I can call _Penny_. I spin Penny's number into the dialer with shaky fingers and hold my breath. 

Ring. Ring. Ring. (I'm listening to the dial tone from _my phone_.)

"Mitali Bunce speaking."

"Hello, it's Simon. Can you get Penny?"

"Sure. Penny! It's-"

"But please don't tell her it's me!" I scramble to say. "I want it to be a surprise."

I hear Mitali chuckle. "Alright." 

The other end is silent aside from some clicking and shuffling before: "Hello, this is Penelope Bunce."

I make my voice as deep as it can go and throw on a terrible British accent and say, "'Ello."

"Simon! What's up?" she says, cheerfully.

I pout. "How'd you know it was me?"

She laughs. "I just did. Are you working?"

I grin. "No."

"Oh. Are you at the store?"

"Nope," I say, popping the p.

"Why are you making me guess?" she whines. "Hanging out in the phone booth on main?"

"Wrong again," I sing. "I'm at home. Ebb got me a phone."

She's quiet for a second before I hear a string of shouts come through the speaker. I have to pull the phone away from my ear. 

"Oh my god, Simon. I'm calling you every day. Every single day. Three times a day. _No_. Fuck it. _Ten_ times a day. All day. This is so fucking cool." (I hear Pen's mom scold her for the cursing.)

I laugh. "Please do."

"This is so exciting. I can call you!"

"I know!"

"I can't believe this."

"I can't believe Ebb got me a phone."

"Really?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Give me your number." I do. "Fucking sick, Simon. I actually have to go right now, but I'm calling the shit out of you later." ( _"Penelope Bunce!"_ )

I smile. "It's a date."

"That it is. Later."

"Bye."

I hear the receiver click and I try not to be too sad Penny had to go. 

I pull out my phone book and I call work next. My coworker Sara answers the phone and I tell her that I have a phone now and ask her to put my number in the employee contact list. Then, I call the bank and ask them how much is in my savings account. (It's not much. They suggest depositing more money so that I actually benefit from the interest rate. I tell them I'll think about it. I won't.) Then I call the movie theatre and ask them what's showing. (Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Space Camp. Free popcorn if I buy tickets to the back-to-back showing.) After that, because I'm excitable, I call the grocery store and hang up as soon as they answer, because _what are you supposed to ask the grocery store?_

Then I call Aggie, in a moment of weakness and stupidity and selfishness. She picks up, and she sounds happy. She says, "This is Agatha Wellbelove. How may I assist you?" like she had to make herself stop laughing to answer the phone. I almost hang up.

I pinch the bridge of my nose before drenching my voice in diplomacy. "Hey, Aggie. It's Simon."

I hear her deflate. "Oh. Simon. Hello."

"Um. Sorry to bother you. I just thought I'd let you know I got a phone. So. If. If you, y'know, need anything." 

"That's thoughtful," she says, her voice flat.

Aggie broke up with me right before school ended. She was cheating on me, and I don't really blame her. (I was a terrible boyfriend.) But we had been together since the eighth grade, and I had assumed we would be together forever. And so had everyone else. Y'know, golden couple and all that. I thought we'd get married and I would convert to Judaism to make her mom happy, and we would have a hundred Jewish kids and die together one day in a big house that Aggie's parents would pay for. But then Agatha stormed up to me in the middle of the lunch room on the last day of school, and in front of God and fucking everyone, told me she thought we should see other people. And then she said, "Fuck it. Since I'm being honest with you, I've already started seeing other people." 

And I just said, "Oh." 

She was furious. I think she wanted me to be mad, or fight for her, or something, but I just wanted her to be happy. Honestly. Which led to me doing something even worse than just saying "Oh." Right after that I asked, "Is he nice?"

"So. How's your summer been?" I ask. 

"My summer's been fine. Yours?"

"It's been good."

"Great. I'm going to get off here, if you don't mind."

"Oh," I say. Again. Because I never learn my lesson. "Alright, then."

"That's it?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"Right. Bye, Simon." 

Dial tone.

__________________________________________

Summer goes by quickly, little mundane things stacked on top of one another passing the time. Things like showers and grocery store trips keeping track of the days so I don't have to. I do about three things for about six weeks. 

Thing #1: I work. I work and I work and I work. And honestly, I love it. Penny would get on to me for feeding into what the "one percent" wants if I told her I liked working a moderately shitty minimum wage job. But we have nice aprons, and Barbara lets us take them home, and on the occasion that I make something nice, like spaghetti, I get to wear a nice apron. Also, I like my coworker, Sara. She's brilliant — in a different way than Penny is. She gives every customer a story as soon as they walk in the cafe. We hear the bell above the door jingle and I say, "And this one?" and she springs into some elaborate story about their life. "Hm. Fifty-four, and still sexy as hell, obviously. Married seven times. She's a real black widow type, more of a praying mantis type actually, because she killed all of her ex-husbands mid-orgasm; their life insurance money is how she funds her many, many businesses. She owns a distillery in New York, and a dispensary in Colorado. And two French brothels. She's a real entrepreneur, that one." 

Thing #2: I talk to Penny on the phone. Every day. As soon as I hit my front door, I run to the phone in my bedroom and call Penny. (I've been timing myself and I can dial her number on the rotary in nine seconds.) I lay on my bed and we talk for hours. About anything, and sometimes we don't talk at all. She'll read, or do whatever it is she does, and I'll do whatever it is I do, and we'll just listen to each other breathe and blink. Sometimes, we even fall asleep on the phone, and I'll wake up to the distant sound of Penny's mom fussing over her sleeping on the kitchen table and to little dents in my cheek where I laid on the speaker for too long. And if I need to be doing something with my hands when I call, or if I'm cooking (I'm very thankful for the second phone jack above the kitchen counter), I tie the handset to the side of my head with a ribbon. I look like a ninja from the movies. Penny says I'm ridiculous, and I say I'm innovative.

Thing #3: Normal human things — sleeping, eating, showering. You know how it is. Stupid, demanding bodily functions taking up your time. Ridiculous.

School starts in a week. This is a very chaotic part of the year. I guess I do a fourth summer thing: coach Penny through her mild breakdowns. From about the middle of July, Penny starts slowly losing her mind. And I know she is losing it because this is the only time of the year we listen to the Violent Femmes. Penny does not like the Violent Femmes usually, but mid-July comes around and she suddenly finds their music "comforting." Also, we spend a lot of time at the office supply stores looking at notebooks and rating them on their environmental sustainability. And a lot of time in 7-Eleven parking lots at night while Penny chain-smokes cigarettes. I think she freaks out because she feels like she's running out of time. I get it; summer's are liminal spaces and school is a shock to the system.

Anyway, every year Agatha has a party before school starts and every year Penny and I go. Penny likes going because she likes rebelling and there are plenty of opportunities for rebellion at parties. I liked going because of Agatha, because she was my girlfriend and you're supposed to go to your girlfriend's parties. I don't have a reason to go anymore, but Penny does. And she's very adamant that I come with her.

Pen throws her head back against the grey concrete wall of the 7-Eleven, groaning dramatically.

"Simon. I bought you a smoothie! Listen to me."

"Penny. It's a good smoothie. Thank you. But I refuse."

"You can still be friends!"

"She doesn't _want_ to be friends."

"Sure she does!" 

"Why do you think _I_ want to be friends with _her_?" I say, indignant. "She cheated on me! And then told me about it in front of literally our entire class."

"You said you didn't care," Penny says, dismissively. She's really not very good at being sensitive.

"I mean, I would've rather not been cheated on. Obviously."

"It's a huge house! You won't even see her. Just come and hang out with me. Please?"

"Aggie won't want me there."

"Then it's like payback for her cheating on you, right? Stick it to the man, Simon."

I take a sip of my smoothie. It's strawberry-banana. "Do you have any idea how shitty you sound?"

She rolls her eyes. "Free alcohol, Simon." 

"I don't even like drinking that much."

"Well, if the first night of spring break sophomore year has anything to say about it, you do."

It's my turn to groan. "You promised you would never bring that up again."

"Don't you think it would be weird if you _didn't_ go?" Penny asks, gesturing wildly. "You've gone every year! Even back in middle school when it was still an all-girl's sleepover instead of a hormone and booze fueled hoedown."

I sigh. 

"Simon," she says.

"It'll be fun," she says.

"Free alcohol."

"The _invigorating_ smell of sweat and pot."

"Good music. You know Agatha has good taste."

" _Dancing_ , Simon. Teenage rebellion."

"Maybe you'll even find someone nice to fuck in a closet. When was the last time-"

"Jesus, Penny," I stammer, covering the heat creeping up into my cheeks with my smoothie. "Shut the fuck up and I'll go."

She claps her hands together and then mimics locking her lips and throwing away the key. "Lovely."

With a godawful spring in her step, Penny leads us back to the car. 

"You don't think we'll run into Aggie?" I ask.

I fall down into the passenger's seat, tucking the smoothie into a cup holder. We wince at the sound of pinched styrofoam against the plastic vinyl. Penny twists the keys in the ignition. 

"Doubt it. She'll find her friends and hang out with them in the back. We just won't go out there. It'll be _fun_ , don't worry."

I huff and lean my head against the window. Penny rolls her window down, and looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to do the same. I don't. Penny makes a show of reaching across the center console to crank my window down. I don't move my head from the glass, just to be obnoxious.

We pull out of the 7-Eleven's parking lot. A grungy truck driver in a wife-beater leers at Penny from the sidewalk with an ugly smirk and an even uglier hand gesture. I give him the finger and Penny yells, "You're too fucking old for me, asshole," out the window.

All the people here are the same — the truck drivers, the math teachers, the drug dealers, the churchgoers and the families of five. Everyone is pretending and everyone's a deadbeat. The buildings, too. Everything matches; a little grey, a little run down, a little ugly. 

Penny doesn't belong here. She's gonna get out. Everyone knows that. She'll go to some fancy college because they will have begged for her attendance and she'll argue for a living. She'll lead a few revolutions. She'll write speeches and spout them from up on places you're not meant to stand. She'll make prints in the dirt, with her body made of stone and standards, that not even God himself could wash away.

And I'll watch from the boxy television on the counter where I'll still be making coffee, probably. But who knows? I don't think I belong here, I'm not pretending, but I don't know if I can get out. Or if it matters.

Pen lights a cigarette and breathes a cloud of smoke out the window. I fiddle with the latch on the glovebox.

"Did you sign up for the ACT again?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Why? Your score was perfect."

"Not perfect. A thirty-six is perfect."

"A thirty-three's basically perfect, Penny."

She takes a drag. "Three points shy. I want it _actually_ perfect. High stakes, Simon."

She means Princeton. Or Brown. Making-money-arguing-for-a-living schools, changing-the-world schools. "I know."

"Did you sign up?"

I turn on the AC and Penny immediately turns it back off.

"Not yet."

"The deadline's on the first, yeah? Of September?"

I shrug.

"You better fucking sign up, Si."

"I have plenty of time. Like, a month."

"Less than," she says, pointedly.

"I know. I will."

Out the window, the sky is a milky sort of dark, peppered with stars. It's sinking into the grass and slinking around buildings and headlights. 

"I'm taking you home," Penny says. "I have to get back."

"What? No Staples tonight?" I say, smiling.

"I feel like you're making fun of me. That place is so comforting. Best fucking atmosphere."

I laugh. "I know. I'm not making fun of you."

"Good." She smiles, turning back to the road.

She drives, so confidently, as always. 

When we were in middle school, I thought I had a crush on Penny. Because of how exhilarated I felt around her, how excited. A little feral, maybe. Free, definitely. But then I realized Penny makes everyone feel like that. The only people that don't like her are STEM teachers and conservatives, because she's bigger than them — metaphorically or whatever.

Suddenly, at a red light, she groans and slams her head into the steering wheel, honking the horn with her nose. "Goddamn it."

"What?"

"I'm so bored!"

"Right now?"

"Not, like, specifically. Boring summer. I want something to happen soon. Drama. Excitement. Anything."

I hum. "I kind of like boring. The light's green."

She lifts her head up and punches the accelerator, pressing me back into my seat, like an astronaut in a rocket ship headed up, up, up. 

"I have a feeling about this party, Si. Something fun is going to happen," she shouts over the wind pounding through the car.

"Maybe I shouldn't go after all," I shout back.

"Actually, the oracle is telling me you really should."

"Tell the oracle I prefer to make my own way."

She rolls her eyes. "The oracle doesn't listen to mere mortals, Simon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! thank you so much for reading! i hope you liked it :)
> 
> i'm still not completely sure about an updating schedule? this took me about three weeks but this chapter was really hard for me because it felt like a filler? even though there was plot? i don't know! but i'm thinking two weeks for future chapters. i think it will be easier once i get more of a feel for chaptered stories. 
> 
> here is a special thank you to broadway_hufflepuff because they are always so kind! <3
> 
> see you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked it, please let me know!! your comments literally make my day. 
> 
> see you soon!


End file.
